


The end of a story is part of it from the beginning

by fawatson



Category: The Shining Company - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14188173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: After five years travelling, Prosper and Cynan return to Britain.





	1. Prosper's Return

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).



> **Request:** I would like a story where Prosper, Conn, and Luned are in a sort of matter-of-fact, simple polyamorous arrangement, most likely engineered by Luned. Post-canon mundane smith business, horse-tending, being a bard, and domesticity? Perfect. A future curtain fic where they rub ointments to soothe Conn's ruined knee and smile at each other? Perfect. Luned is married to one of them and they invite the other to father a child? Perfect. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Acknowledgement:** Many thank to my sister for beta-reading.

I had been a long time returning. One _might_ even say I had been on my way home from the moment I set out. After all, the original idea had been (at least as far as my father had been concerned) a season’s service to Gorthyn, after which I would settle, older and wiser. Instead I had stayed away. 

I could so easily have returned after Catraeth. There were no more Companions. Cynan had recovered and had been released from his vows of loyalty by Mynyddog. I had originally sworn oath to Gorthyn. To be chosen by Cynan before the last sortie was not the same as a binding oath to one’s lord. 

It was even more binding. 

Besides, Phanes’ tales of the Golden City on the Golden Horn lured. 

I had set out the loyal shieldbearer to the great warrior. Somehow in the last five years I had become a warrior too. And, like all experienced warriors, I had many a tale to tell on a cold winter’s night round the fire. One, however, I never told: the tale of the Gododdin. Not that it was mine to tell. It was the tale of long dead men, all of whom lived on in my memory. It was Cynan’s tale: the last surviving warrior (not that he ever spoke of it). With some justification, Aneirin could lay claim to it, having written the great ballad the Shining Company inspired. But I simply fell silent whenever I remembered the deeds of those men. I knew I had acquitted myself reasonably well; I knew I had not failed the faith and trust Ceredig had placed in all the men. But I would not speak of what I had seen. Not that anyone in Constantinople had been interested in hearing it. Cynan and I had been barbarians from the distant north. Nothing that happened _there_ could be of interest. And given the wonders of that great city I could understand why its inhabitants thought themselves the centre of the universe. I almost forgot. But, fascinating though foreign wonders were, both Cynan and I grew homesick until, one day we resolved to go back. And as we turned our faces homeward, I began to remember more and more. 

And as we stayed one night in an inn near the waterfront of a busy trading port on the Frankish coast, I heard Aneirin’s song – badly sung, to be sure – but nonetheless, the tale of the Gododdin. I went to order more drinks while Cynan attended to nature’s needs. There was a crush of customers and by the time the drinks were filled, Cynan had returned, going to sit by the bard who was just finishing a rollicking, hilariously bawdy drinking song. I watched as a copper coin exchanged hands and the two conversed. I had half-finished both my own drink and his before they were done and Cynan rejoined me. 

“Mynyddog’s long dead,” Cynan offered after taking a long swallow of his beer.

“No surprises there,” I replied, “he was barely alive when we left.” 

“His oldest daughter’s son succeeded him.”

“Also no surprises,” I remarked. 

“Not after Mynyddog’s only son died.”

I lifted my head from the beer mug, eyes wide with astonishment. 

“He led the Teulu before the Shining Company was formed. That campaign…,” Cynan sighed deeply. “Had we been successful, had we _returned,_ there is not one of us would not have followed wherever he led.” He paused again to take another deep drink, “and his reputation would have been such, no man would have stood against him.” 

“Was that why the King sent him?” I asked. It was a new thought to me. 

Cynan shook his head and shrugged, “Perhaps…perhaps not. All these years later who is to say what was in the mind of Mynyddog. Did he want a son to succeed him? What man would not? But he was close to his daughter’s husband too; and the treaty between the King and the Dalriada was based on his daughter’s son inheriting rule of Dyn Eidyn, with his father Amalgoid in control of course, until the boy was old enough. There was no love lost between Ceredig and Amalgoid. Had Gododdin war-bands been sent, we might not have killed Aethelfrith but the Companions could still have won free. Ceredig returned triumphant to Dyn Eidyn would have split the kingdom. A King sometimes has to make hard choices for his kingdom.”

As I remembered Amalgoid claiming the Champion’s Portion at the midwinter feast my eyes grew wide. What I had not known that night….

“Knowing this, can you honour and serve Amalgoid?” I asked. 

“Amalgoid is dead also,” Cynan replied calmly, “two years past. He took a spear to his left shoulder in a skirmish with Deira; the wound turned bad and he died raving.” 

“Who rules now?”

“Mynyddog’s second daughter’s husband heads a Council ruling in name of Amalgoid’s oldest child, having no children of his own save one sickly daughter. But he was hamstrung in battle the next season.” Cynan paused briefly before adding, “And Niamh is still unwed.”

We sat in silence finishing our tankards before we rose in unison and made our way up winding stairs to the attic room we had paid for. I helped Cynan with his boots, then sat on the bed counting the coins left in my pouch while Cynan knelt in turn to tug at my footwear. A touch on my knee brought my thoughts back from their dreams. 

“Will you come with me?” 

Younger eyes met older soberly. Constantinople had been good to us both: I had more than enough for my passage home and to buy a farm of my own, if I could find a decent place. I had had enough of adventure and rather fancied breeding horses. But I would not see Cynan go alone to Dyn Eidyn. 

Crossing the next day was straightforward. The sea between Britain and the Frankish lands was not smooth exactly, but there were not the high crests and rolling waves that had made for queasy stomachs such as we had suffered the morning we crossed in the other direction. The sun shone and a line dropped over the stern of the boat caught a fair string of mackerel as we sailed. We watched the white cliffs rise higher and closer until the boat was guided skilfully through a channel to a natural harbour where we tied up without any difficulty. After thanking both men and gods who had brought the boat to safety, we made our way up steps to the quayside, where we bartered for horses and bought provisions for the long journey north. 

A week later we rode into the town on weary horses, two anonymous men in dusty riding gear, a homecoming so very different from that one five years earlier. Dyn Eidyn was bustling and vibrant, noisy beyond bearing for two men who had spent quiet days and nights riding the countryside, living off the land (but lying low as well) as we passed through the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms on the way north. No one expected our coming – no one recognised us. At the gate of the Dyn, guards stopped us and asked our business, Cynan asked after old comrades from the Teulu, some of whom the men knew. Their demeanour changed as they recognised names, and became more respectful. Nonetheless, we were directed to a wayside inn and stables. We _could_ have pushed for entry but it was late and we were saddle-sore. A hot meal and soft bed beckoned invitingly. However, arriving so late in the day meant we had places in the stable loft, rather than a room. 

“Fewer fleas this way,” remarked Cynan. He dug through his bags for his brother's ring, that he had packed away for safekeeping during our journey, and then dug deeper for something to make his mark on. I went to see to the horses. 

The dun mare’s shoe was loose so a candlemark later I sent the stable-boy off with two messages. “Tell the blacksmith to come first thing in the morning; and bring back any word from the Court Steward straightaway.” 

Cynan had tucked himself into a dark corner and was flirting with the barmaid and I was sopping up the last of the gravy from my bowl of rabbit stew when I looked up to see her standing there waiting. She had covered herself in an enveloping dark cloak but it did not serve to disguise her. No longer a slip of a girl, Niamh nonetheless still had the same pale hair, braided and tied with gold, and those eyes that looked too large in her thin pointed face. 

“Where is he?” 

Stunned, I pointed across the room. As it happened the barmaid had just stood up; she looked coquettishly back at him and Cynan reciprocated with a gentle pat on her rear before he pulled her back down on his lap. 

Niamh stiffened, raised her chin high and proudly stalked out. It was quite an achievement in the crowded inn but the fierce look on her face made customers draw back. It created a discordant ripple in an otherwise jovial atmosphere – a ripple which soon reached to Cynan’s corner. He lifted his head as she reached the door. That sense of danger – that ‘eyes-behind-the-back’ quality which made him such a formidable fighter – made him focus on her back as she whisked through the inn’s entrance. In a flash, barmaid forgotten, he was after her. I turned back to my bowl, now empty, and beer tankard, even emptier. Somehow, given the determination on his face, I doubted I would see Cynan again this evening. A quick trip to the barman secured me a mead jar which I took out to the stables. 

Dawn comes all too soon for a man with an aching head. Not that it was exactly dawn when I rose, and my throbbing head could have stayed abed longer. But the horses needed tending and why should they suffer because I finished the jar the night before? I stumbled down the loft ladder and out the stable door to relieve myself. A conveniently situated trough provided water to freshen me, before I made my way to our two horses. 

Someone had got there before me. It took me a moment to recognise Conn. I stood for a bit, then, my head swimming, sat quietly, watching Conn as he worked, cleaning and trimming the hooves before he fitted Cynan’s bay gelding with new shoes. A quick glance back at the dun mare confirmed she had already been taken care of. He was neat and sure in his actions, economical in his movements, soothing the horse with steady murmurs and occasional gentle strokes. I remembered when he had watched in fascinated yearning, wanting so much to learn. Now he was confident and skilled. Some of those skills had been learned at Catreath. I had not expected to find Conn here. _Why_ was he here? Why had he not returned to my father’s holdings in Nant Ffrancon? 

I hadn’t realised I had spoken until he turned and replied. 

“I did go back,” he said, “but when your father refused to allow Luned and me to marry, I left again, and she came with me.”

“Luned is here too?” 

He nodded and smiled. “And our son.”

I stared. He had a child? Of _course_ he had a child. The stripling youth he had been – _I_ had been – was long gone. He was fully a man now, as I was, and – I looked more closely at his clothing – clearly prosperous. 

“How did you know I was here?” I asked. “When I asked for a farrier I never expected _you._ ” 

He laughed. “You may have arrived quietly; but from the moment news of Cynan MacClydno’s return was whispered, that quiet murmur grew into such a clamour it reached past the gatehouse and through the town to the Royal Farm. I knew if he was back, so too were you. I came looking.” 

We stood looking at each other in silence for a while, until a horse whinnied and broke the spell. Then we embraced and gave one another the kiss of peace. 

“You must come home with me,” he urged. 

“I must wait for Cynan,” I protested. 

Conn grinned. “You’ll have a long wait. What I heard was the Princess Niamh has him locked in her bower. The _last_ thing on his mind will be collecting his things.” 

Remembering the intense expressions on both Cynan’s and Niamh’s faces the night before I had no doubt he was right. 

And so I packed, paid the last of what I owed to the innkeeper, and remounted my dun mare while Conn rode Cynan’s gelding. He took the lead through the crowded streets to a winding lane neatly sandwiched between the edge of town dwellings and the Royal Farm beyond, a lane overhung with hawthorn and elder that ended in a yard big enough for two carts and horses with a cosy cottage in one corner and a substantial stone smithy in the other. Furious barking heralded our arrival, and, as Gelert scampered toward us, the door to the cottage opened, framing a woman. As we dismounted, a young boy of maybe three years raced toward us, flung himself joyously on Conn, and was lifted high, before he kicked, was set down again, and ran off with Gelert. 

I tried to hold back a little as Conn greeted Luned with a kiss on the cheek, but she pulled me into their embrace, cuddling into my shoulder and reaching up to stroke my hair. Finally, she pulled back to show me eyes swimming with tears and a wide beaming smile. 

“At last you are home,” she said, and she took my hand and led me inside. 


	2. Luned's Family

Lots of homes had just one door but ours had two: a front door which looked out onto the blacksmith’s yard and a rear door that led to the paddock. A paddock that had been empty until Prosper got home. The Three Battle Horsemen of Dyn Eidyn had set out and not returned. Cynan was back now; but he did not take up horse breeding again, occupied as he was with royal duties. His father had died in his absence; Cynan sold the old family farm to Prosper who set to with energy and enthusiasm to make a successful business. 

Except something wasn’t right. 

The first three months had been fine. The relief of having Prosper home with us, of not having to wonder and worry how he was, had been wonderful. Sometimes, after a gap, old friendships did not last; but ours had stood the test of separation and been doubly renewed. He had been touched to learn we had called our son Ceredig in memory of the Gododdin. Prosper had always loved horses, and the discovery Conn had somehow managed to hold onto Shadow had pleased him enormously (as did the brown foal running by her side). He seemed to settle in quickly – at least at first – to become part of the family. 

My son adored his father and loved ‘helping’ him in the smithy; but he also liked nothing more than horses. I had expected him to fall quickly into hero-worship of Prosper and want to dog his heels. But Prosper was distant - unfailingly kind to young Ceredig, but he did not encourage him. Of course my son was still quite little and excitable, while horses are very large and can be dangerous if spooked by a bouncy child. When Prosper said it was not safe he was quite right. But a smithy isn’t exactly the safest place either; yet Conn made it safe for his son. Not that I wanted Ceredig to transfer his affections from his father to Prosper; but I had expected Prosper to become more important to my son than he did. They saw a lot of each other every day. His father, back in Wales, had never had much time for Prosper, beyond setting him rules to follow and punishing him if he broke them. As the second son, my friend had never had much affection from his father. But his father had been an important man and lived in a villa. We lived together in quite a small house. I remembered, though, Prosper had never called his father Da, never played with him, never shared his childish triumphs with him. Perhaps having never had a Da himself, Prosper did not know how to be a friend to my son? 

And there were other things, little things, but things that made me wonder. And as time went on I began to notice them more and more. Like the way he kept his weapons honed and close to hand – not just his hunting knife and bow and arrow, but his short sword. Or the way Prosper’s hair was cut short – ready to put on a helmet. I took to watching him when he thought he wasn’t being observed, watching from our back door as he worked the horses in the paddock, training them to take direction from a rider’s legs and feet, not the reins in his hand. He was training war horses, not cart horses. And when he sat in the middle of the day to eat his meal he did not rest. The slightest little sound would bring him alert, looking round, and reaching for the knife at his belt, or his whip. 

The Prosper I knew who left Nant Ffrancon at 16 had been a boy, full of ideals, eager for life and excited at the thought of going on adventure with the man he hero-worshipped. This Prosper, the man of 22 whom I watched each day… this man who walked quietly, soberly, who kept his thoughts to himself… who was awkward around old friends even while he smiled…this man whose work done for the day sat under the tree whittling a piece of wood that last night’s storm had blown from the chestnut tree, rather than come in by the fire…I had a suspicion this man would kill a white hart if one crossed his path. 

“What’s for supper,” Conn spoke quietly in my ear, as he slipped his arms round my waist from behind and snuggled me into his body. I twisted round in his arms and hugged him back. Whatever misgivings I might have about Prosper, there were none about this man. 

“Just bannock and cheese with ale tonight, I’m afraid.” 

“Honey on the bannock?” he whispered hopefully.

My husband had a sweet tooth as large as my son’s. 

“Honey on the bannock.” 

“Honey tonight Ceredig,” he called back to our son before he went past me and out the back door heading for the paddock beyond and Prosper. 

I went in the opposite direction to fetch the boy in. The worst of the soot Ceredig had acquired while ‘helping’ his father at the forge had been washed off at the horse trough in the yard outside. Now he squatted beside it playing with the water and some carved wooden animals Prosper had made for him. Sitting on ground made muddy by splashed water was replacing the soot with dirt. Another trip to wash, this time down by the stream before bed, might be in order after we ate. For now, I settled for dunking my son’s hands back into the trough and scrubbing his face with a corner of my skirt, before I brought him inside.

Prosper and Conn had already found the stack of bannock left to warm in a basket set near the fire and were deep in conversation about trade as they ate hunks of cheese alternating with bannock and honey. I focused on Ceredig, making sure he took some cheese and not just the honey, and cutting the wormy bit off an apple before handing it to him. I had sampled as I cooked earlier so was not very hungry but I nibbled on cheese while I listened to my men talk. 

My men…they were that. One more so than the other… 

One I had known since he and I were children in the same household, though not children together, given he had been bought as a servant. But my care for him had deepened and I had never forgotten him, had lived in anxiety that year when he and Prosper went away, lest they not return. I had gone with him joyously when he asked, not simply because Prosper’s father had been talking about a possible match with someone I did not care for. He was mine and I was his and that was all there was to it. 

The other I had known all my life, not blood kin, but the brother of my heart, now in some ways a stranger, even though, by this time, he had living under the same roof as me for several months. Conn and I knew many people in Dyn Eidyn; his work saw to that. I had introduced Prosper to friends, thinking perhaps a sister or daughter or cousin of one of the men Conn did business with would catch his eye and he would build his own house just behind ours, and make a home with her there. I had dreamed my next child and hers would be born around the same time – would grow up together just as Conn and Prosper and I had. It was a year since he returned. In the past year Cynan had married, Princess Niamh had had a baby and was now sick in the mornings with their second, and the Council of Elders had put Cynan in charge of the Dyn. But, apart from running the horse farm, Prosper had shown no real interest in anything, certainly not settling down in marriage with a local girl. He seemed still set apart – a man passing through the town rather than resident within it, no matter how hard he worked at the horses. I had worried when I did not know where he was and how he was doing; now I worried when I did know. He was _important_ to me and mine, and I did not like this unsettled feeling I got from him.

I took the remains of the meal out to the pig we kept in a corner of yard (fattening to kill for the midwinter feast) while Conn and Prosper took Ceredig down to the stream. All three needed to wash sweat, dirt and stickiness away. I made do with a bucket of water from the well, then combed out my hair before taking off my dress and slipping into bed under the covers. It was not long before I heard men and boy return, heard familiar rustling and stumbling sounds as Prosper went to his place and Conn settled our son on his pallet before he joined me. His limbs were chilled and still slightly damp from the cold water and he wrapped them round mine to warm them and spooned against my back. His hands stroked my breasts gently before he ran them down my stomach and over the swell of my rounded belly. 

“Is everything well?” he whispered, “You were quiet this evening so I wondered.” 

“Everything is fine,” I whispered back. 

The babe under my heart kicked vigorously and Conn kissed my neck in delight as he felt him, “yes, everything _is_ fine.” 

Within seconds he was snoring. In truth, everything was fine, at least with this new child, and with Ceredig and Conn. And I had no real reason to worry about Prosper…had I?


	3. Conn's Campaign

As I drove the horse and cart, I twisted round for one last look before the yard and house would be hidden by a turn in the lane. Luned was still there watching, Ceredig by her side, our baby in arms. She raised one arm and waved, her hand movements a bit jerky. She was _definitely_ upset, but she would not let those feelings get in the way of seeing me off. Gods, but I hoped I would come back – hoped that for _both_ Prosper and me. This had to be the very last time I ever rode away to war; I was absolutely determined about that. 

Prosper was silent beside me. _He_ looked the warrior he was: tough, experienced, his weapons ready to hand. I was what I had been when he and I last rode to battle together: a field blacksmith, equipped with small portable forge and tools suitable to shoe horses and make minor repairs to weapons and armour. The repetition sent a shiver down my spine. Only as we caught up with the main host did it hit home to me: it would be very different this time. This was no highly trained, specially selected vanguard. The Cran-Tara had gone out and been answered. This was a full war-host on the move. Emissaries sent to the Dalriads, Elmet, and Rheged had been well-received. Promises had been given. No longer would we sit meekly while the Deirans raided us. We would fight back and this time we would push the Saxons back to the sea or die trying. 

We waited four days at Trimontium for the full muster from Gododdin to arrive. The war host’s spirits were high. The men had confidence in Cynan as leader: had he not been part of the Shining Company? Had his wife not had twin boys just five months ago? It was a sign of sure good fortune to have twin sons. Was the weather not dry and clear – perfect for hunting, ideal for the chase. Fate was smiling on us. 

Just before we reached Habitancum the Dalriads joined us. Aedan Mac Gabrain had not sent a full war host. He had not the men. His own defeat at the hands of Aethelfrith a few years before had weakened the forces at his disposal considerably. Nonetheless, what warriors he had to spare had come south, bringing with them ample provisions and changes of mounts. They were little shaggy horses (ponies really) but hardy beasts. Having come all this way south they were in dire need of attention. I spent three days reshoeing all the Dalriad mounts. 

As we moved further south, a small but well equipped band of warriors rode out from Caer Luil. They were an undisciplined bunch, and their ways much different from ours. All were expert bowman, but very used to shooting bows from behind thick walls rather than from the backs of horses at full gallop. We had just passed the ruins of Vercovicium. Cynan ordered camp and spent several days drilling all the men, trying to form the disparate tribal bands into one well-disciplined war-host. Prosper was his right-hand man, demonstrating sword-thrusts and best use of the shield.

We were only a few miles from Catraeth when we ran into the vanguard of Aethelfrith’s forces. We were caught unawares and they charged at us, yelling and waving their spears and axes. Cynan formed the Teulu into a wide outward-facing circle, bristling with weaponry and had them stand firm, with the tribal levies on the inside as a second layer, and non-combatants, like me, in the middle. Non-combatant I may have been but nonetheless I had my knife in my hand ready to use if needed. Fortunately, it was not Aethelfrith’s main force and we routed them easily. We feasted well that night, in celebration. 

That was, however, just the beginning of a long campaign that continued all through that summer and into early autumn. Little battles, running battles, skirmishes. No major battles – and _no_ sieges. Cynan had learned well from the ordeal of the Shining Company at Catraeth. We kept on the move: burning and looting, striking swiftly before galloping off at top speed, then lying low (or as low as a large host of men could) for a few days before doing all again, just to the east, or west, or north, or south of where we had struck before. The war-band harried and harassed the Deirans and Bernicians mercilessly. 

Prosper made it his practice to find me at the end of each day, ensuring himself that I was all right and bedding down beside me. 

“Why?” I asked one evening. “Your place is surely with the men Cynan has put under your command.” 

“I promised Luned,” he said. “It was hard for her to accept you were coming on campaign, so I told her I would look out for you and make sure you stayed safe.” 

I laughed, “And she made _me_ promise to look out for _you_.” 

He looked startled for a minute then laughed. “I am too old a hand at this business to be caught, have no fear.” And, Prosper explained, “This is a dirty business, you know. Not one for song and story. You know what I did today?” 

I shook my head. 

“Watched while villagers scythed their corn fields. Tomorrow we will set them alight.” 

I was shocked. “ _Villagers?_ Not fighting men?” 

“What do you think we are if not villagers?” Prosper asked. “Oh, _some_ in this host are trained warriors; but most are men who spend their days tilling fields and setting snares for rabbits. But they answered the Cran-Tara and now they are men-at-arms, under the direction of the Teulu, and these few like Cynan and me who are trained fighters. Every day we go out in small bands, raiding in different directions. When we find some of Aethelfrith’s men we fight – if the odds are not too much against us – in which case we slink away to regroup." 

I was dumbfounded. “But where is the honour?” 

“Do you see Aneirin here?” Prosper asked me. “There was honour in the Shining Company but we bought less than a handful of years of peace for Mynyddog at the expense of 900 of the Gododdin’s best. When I went to the Golden City I learned a different way of fighting, as did Cynan. This year we will buy a good ten years of peace, maybe more, at the expense of our enemy’s best, not our own.” 

He sounded very cynical, but also very matter-of-fact, though emotion thickened his voice as he added, “Do you think I would have allowed you to come had it been a repeat of Catraeth? Would I have done that to Luned and you – to young Ceredig and baby Cormac?” 

And so I kept my thoughts to myself and noticed more over the next few weeks as I reshod horses and ponies and ground nicks from the blades of weapons. To be sure, there were some causalities, but very few. And there was a steady stream of wagons of grain and flocks of sheep and cartloads of chickens and pigs making their way homeward. The Deirans and Bernicians would have a lean winter this year while the Gododdin and allies would feast well. This grand campaign was more a glorified cattle-raid than a war. 

“We lose whenever we meet in pitched battle,” Prosper explained to me another evening. “The Shining Company lost years ago – the Dalriads lost a year later. They say Aethelfrith is planning a campaign against Powys. If he does look west that will be all to the good of the Gododdin; but I only hope Selyf and Cadwal have more sense than to meet him in formal battle array.”

He sounded very knowledgeable – quite the tactician. Very sure of himself and confident of his, and his King’s, invincibility. Not the friend who lived in my house and ran a horse farm on the fields behind the smithy. 

The blackberries were dark and sweet when we turned toward home. The war-band which had swelled in numbers as we moved south, now shrank as men slipped away as they drew near their homes. We were just north of the old Roman wall, partway to Habitancum, but not close enough to use its crumbling walls for defence, when Aethelfrith struck back. He had taken a hand-picked fast-moving mounted force north of us to lie in wait in the lee of a hill until our slower band, burdened with booty, slowed at the ford to a stream. The attack was well planned and perfectly executed. His horsemen drove a wedge between front and rear of our column, then encircled the rear and hacked at anyone trying to escape. All of sudden we were fighting for our lives. _I_ was fighting for my life. My cart overturned in the confusion of pushing, shoving and axe-blows; I tumbled to the ground, twisting my weak leg, and was scrambling under my broken cart for cover when an arm reached down. 

“Here! Take my hand!” Prosper ordered. 

And he pulled me up in front of him. I lay belly down, ignominiously draped over his horse, jouncing painfully, struggling for breath, as we galloped out of the melee. Presently the horse’s pace slackened, then halted. We were a good mile west of the battle. I slid backward down the horse until my feet touched ground again, then looked up at my friend. There was a trickle of blood from one corner of his open mouth and his eyes stared down at me without seeing. One arrow had hit his left shoulder, the other was deeply embedded in his back.

I took his bronze arm-rings that he had had for so many years, one from Gorthyn, the other from Lleyn after his death, for remembrance of all three men. Then I buried Prosper. I would have preferred to bring him home again, to the care Luned would give his poor body and the familiar ground of his beloved horse farm. But the journey was long and the time of year too warm. So I scooped out a hole in the earth, and laid him into it, said a prayer to the gods, and covered him over. Lacking the proper tools, this task took me the rest of the day, but it was the least I could do for the man who may have started as my 'master' but who quickly became my closest friend - the man who had saved my life. 

I did not try to find Cynan’s war-host. I knew the way home well enough on my own, remembering it from seven years ago. I talked to Prosper as I rode, confiding what I had done, what I planned to do; sometimes I fancied he talked back. At other times I knew I was alone and just his horse was hearing my maundering. As I drew closer to Dyn Eidyn I heard news of the war-host. There had been more injured and dead in that ambush than in the rest of the whole campaign; but Cynan had nonetheless vanquished his enemy and brought prisoners home as well as booty. Dyn Eidyn was celebrating wildly. 

I bypassed the Royal Farm and turned the horse down the quiet winding lane leading to my holding. The way was stained with black elder berries that had dropped, unharvested. I dismounted to open the gate, and left the horse to fend for itself. The yard was still, and when I tried it, the door to the cottage firmly shut and barred. I knocked loudly and called, and Luned opened the door, looking at me wildly, clearly wondering if I was some wraith. I pulled her into my arms and she clung to me. 

"I thought you were dead!" she cried. "They said you both were dead." She twisted out of my arms and looked beyond me, into the yard where the solitary horse drank from the trough. Then, with sudden realization, she said "Prosper is dead." And her eyes were sober.

I nodded, and pulled her into my arms again, as much for my own comfort as hers.

It was hard to let go, but eventually I remembered the horse and she remembered the babe and we parted to our tasks. One of Luned’s woman-friends had taken Ceredig for the day to play with her own. I was still brushing the horse when she brought him back. He rushed to me as he always does, begging to be thrown up high, unquestioning about my return. Her surprise showed. I could tell she too wondered for a minute but felt reassured as she watched me limp to thank her. (What ghost limps, after all.) She would spread the word, I knew, which meant Luned and I could expect well-wishers tomorrow. But for now we were just family, smaller than last year but without the need to put on a brave face in front of strangers. 

Ceredig chattered throughout supper, which was a simple affair of pig’s feet boiled with cabbage, onions and barley. He had tired himself out running in circles with his friends and fell asleep suddenly as small children do while I was only half way through recounting the tale of Cuchulainn and the defence of Ulster against Queen Meabh. I covered him with the quilt and kissed his soft hair and returned to the fire where Luned was unpacking my saddle bags. She made a face at the sweaty smell of garments that had not seen proper washing and airing for weeks, and made a show of holding them at arms-length as she opened the back door and threw them outside. But she sat down suddenly when she came to a long thin shape, enfolded in a black woollen cloak, and laid it carefully on the ground. I stepped forward, knelt and unwrapped it: Prosper’s sword in its boiled leather scabbard. 

“I brought it home for his son,” I said softly, and nodded at Luned’s belly, grown gently rounded in the weeks I had been away. 

Her eyes opened wide and she flushed. “You knew?” 

Could I live in the same house with you both and _not_ know?” I chided her. 

__

“Men do.”

“ _Some_ men do,” I corrected her. “But not men who are truly brothers, who have nothing but a care for one another and for the woman they both love.”

Luned launched herself at me then; and I had my arms full of crying woman as she sought comfort from the man who had come home about the loss of her man who had not. 

“Shhh…shhh…” I soothed. “I am here, and Ceredig and Cormac, and soon enough we will have another Prosper, somewhat younger than _our_ Prosper but no less dear, to tell stories to about the brave deeds of his father and to teach how to wield his father’s sword. 

But she shook her head firmly. “I asked the wise woman while you were away and she said I am carrying a girl.” 

A girl? Luned and I had two sons; I had assumed this child another boy. To have a girl was something of a surprise. A daughter for Prosper and the family he had left behind. I smiled, pleased, though... 

“We shall have to think of a different name-day present than the sword.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about Aethelfrith, King of Deira and Bernicia in the early 7th C AD can be found at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%86thelfrith


End file.
